Heard
by M. the Inspector
Summary: "Well? Is this what you'd heard about?" "No," he said finally. "They're not talking about *that.*" (Divergent for the Sansa/Hound dining room conversation.)


**A/N: Divergent for the Sansa/Hound dining room conversation. I feel like Sansa is a little shortchanged if she has to be just an Intrigue Robot, Littlefinger's Second Coming, with no expression of emotions of her own.**

* * *

"Heard you were broken in rough."

She wiped her face clean. "Oh?" she said. Polite curiosity. "Tell me more. What else did you hear?"

He shook his head. Waved it off. Drank his drink.

"I said, what else did you hear?" she repeated calmly, as soon as he lowered the glass. "What did you hear that he did to me?" She raised her chin, lowered her lids. "How about this: you tell me all the things you heard, and then I'll tell you all the things he _actually _did, and then we can compare whose version is worse. I think it will be mine."

The Hound shifted in his seat. "Never mind. I don't want to talk about it."

She felt her lips curving into a smile. She would never get tired of watching grown men squirm. "No, you don't want to talk about it with _me, _do you. But you did want to talk about it behind my back." His eyes dropped to the table, and she allowed him a short moment, to see if he would recover his courage.

He didn't. "Look at me," she ordered quietly. It took him two tries. "I want to show you something. Come with me."

She stood up. He didn't.

"I said, _come with me_," she repeated. Still quietly. "Or I'll call for guards and they'll drag you." She felt herself smiling again. "No. I'll call for Arya, and _she'll _do... I don't even know what. But you're coming."

Finally he stood, without looking at her.

She swept out of the hall, stopping only to direct a guard to send Arya up to the master bedroom. It couldn't hurt to have her on hand, just in case.

* * *

When Sansa led him into her own bedchamber had the door shut behind them and the guards sent away, he didn't know what to think.

When she brought her hands calmly up to her throat and unfastened her cloak, he _really _didn't know what to think. He watched the heavy furs slither off of her and pool on the floor. Her hands were up again, undoing buttons at her neck, and he couldn't watch. She was undressing. What the fuck was he _supposed _to think? Or do?

"I want to show you something," she said again. "And I want your... _experienced_ opinion. How bad is it?"

He understood then – a beat too late; she was pulling the undone collar apart and the livid red of a fresh scar was already peeking out at him.

"Don't," he said.

Her arched eyebrows said she was unimpressed. "Why not? It's nothing you haven't seen before. I don't remember you saying _don't _when Joffrey had me stripped in front of the court and beaten with swords – do you?"

He looked up and to the left, just as he had that day. (And others. He'd become very familiar with one particular portion of the ceiling, eventually.).

She was still busily working her fastenings. "And it won't take long. I'm good at this, you see, I always undress myself, because I don't like other people looking at the mess Ramsay made of my body." Quick and cold, every bit as pitiless as her sister. "But you won't mind, I'm sure. I don't _think _it's as bad as your little problem, though it is _bigger_. But I'd welcome a second opinion."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the dress fall from her shoulders. She was pushing it to her waist. "Look at me," she said. "_Look. At. Me._"

It would be over sooner if he stopped resisting. He looked at her – at her face, which was red and tight with emotion.

"Look at it. Tell me what you think. Is it as bad as you'd _heard _it might be?"

He glanced down – and heard himself hiss. He'd known what must be there, of course, and of course he'd seen worse, but. The dramatic mutilation of a young highborn beauty, _this _beauty in particular, was striking in all the worst ways.

"Well?" she pressed. Hands by her sides, shoulders straight. "Is this what you'd heard about?"

"No," he said finally. "They're not talking about _that_."

Her hands fisted up in her skirts. "No, they aren't, are they. I know what they like to talk about. He did that too." She was still controlling her voice, or trying to, but the coldness had been replaced by anger – hot anger. "After our wedding night I bled from my womanly parts for three days. Pardon me." She flashed him a mirthless, close-lipped smile. "My cunt. That's what you say, isn't it?"

Her anger angered him in turn. But he kept his voice low; he wouldn't shout at her. "I didn't say it to you. And I wouldn't have done _that._"

"No, you wouldn't." That quickly, her anger was gone. But aloofness cut deeper. "You said you _wouldn't hurt me_. I remember." She turned away at last, suddenly, crossing away from him to stand by the fire. (Her back was as badly ruined as her front; he didn't look at it long.). "Ramsay hurt me."

He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say; he stuck to the obvious. "I can see that."

"Can you see how?" she asked, facing him. "If you tried, could you tell what he did it with?"

"Probably."

"You've seen some ugly corpses in your day."

"Aye."

"Made a few yourself."

"Aye. Not like that, though. Not for fun."

"No." Her mouth was curved again but he wouldn't call it a smile. "It's not fun. Come here."

What would she do if he fled the room? Chase after him, half naked? Call her sister to come put a knife through his guts? Or just sit and cry about it?

He wasn't sure which was worse, but none were good. He approached her – slowly, and not too close.

"Come _here,_" she insisted, beckoning. "And tell me what this looks like to you. Tell me how it happened. I want to know what you see."

He came closer. Focused on the wounds, ignoring her, and then it was much easier. "Knife," he said shortly. "Very sharp. Bite. Knife, knife, knife." He pointed to each. Then froze. "That one..."

The mark was small, really. Barely larger than a coin. But he knew what it was.

"Yes, Ramsay did love flaying people," she said. "That was worse than all the rest put together. Have you ever done that to someone?"

"Girl..."

"_Have you_?"

He sighed. "No, not on purpose."

"Ever had it done _to _you?"

He shook his head. "Not on purpose."

"I see." She sounded almost disappointed. "Well this one's a burn." She held one of her arms out to him, turned it so he could see the puckered mark by her elbow. "This you know."

He nodded.

"Do you ever talk about it?" she asked suddenly. Cocked her head. "What your brother did to you. Do you ever tell people... not just that it happened, but... what it was _like_?"

He shook his head. Then frowned. He'd once told her sister. "Maybe once or twice."

"I don't really talk about this either." She touched herself then, running her hands up her arms and down her front. "Who would I tell? And what? Most people don't even know what's really here."

He didn't know what to say.

"I meant it though," she said after a moment. "I want to know: how bad does it look?"

She put her hands down again, facing him square, and waited.

He did his best with the truth. "Scars like that, you wouldn't even notice on an ugly, hairy old shit like me." That, at least, made her smile. "But on a girl like you, aye, you notice."

Her smile disappeared. He looked for something encouraging. "Most of the cuts'll fade some, though. The lines won't stand out dark like that forever. It'll be... more like..."

"Show me," she said shortly, before he could think of a way to describe it.

He wasn't about to strip for her, but even pushing up his sleeve was enough to find one that would serve. "Here," he said. "Like this. You don't even see them in the mirror anymore, eventually."

She reached out and _touched _him, both hands on his forearm, skimming her fingers over the old wound. He shivered - and that gave him an idea. "Cover up, little bird. You'll catch cold." It seemed diplomatic enough.

Finally she nodded and began pulling her dress back up over herself. Finally he could look away.

But she wasn't done. "You used to say I was pretty," she said, as she dressed. "What do you think now? After this?"

He managed not to snarl that she was asking the wrong fucking man; _he _was going to complain about a little scarring? He just told her, truthfully: "You're still pretty. More than."

She was working on her buttons. It was a little while before she looked up at him... and when she did, her smile was not kind. "Yes, well I suppose that's why men like to think about my being _broken in._"

He swallowed. Apologizing was not his way but he did his best with it. "Pardon for what I said. I _don't_ like to think about it. I wish he hadn't hurt you."

"I do, too." Her smile softened. "But it's over now, and it won't happen again."

"Aye. Ramsay's dead."

"Very dead. I fed him to hounds."

"You-?" It surprised a laugh out of him.

"And I have friends now. _Real _friends. Which reminds me. _YOU CAN STAND DOWN NOW, ARYA,_" she called. "_WE'RE FINE IN HERE. HE'S COMING OUT._" She nodded at him. "Thank you for providing your opinion. You can go."

That was a politer dismissal than he'd ever had from the Lannisters, but it stung infinitely more. He bowed low to her and went out.

* * *

**The End. (I think).**

Let me know what you thought of this! I don't ship Sansan, but, I do think they should have had more than one quick moment of conversation together.


End file.
